A Whisper in the Loudest City in the World
by binnibeans
Summary: England took care of V-E Day. It's America's turn to take care of V-J Day.


**A/N:** For **usxuk**'s Summer Camp event! (I didn't post day 27 up here because I don't think it's that great. So consider it non-existent!) This is the last of the Summer Camp fics!

Day 28: Love

_This is the last theme of summer camp, so you get a nice, vague, simple one. Love! The idea of love must be featured in your fanwork. Go wild!_

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><p>V-E Day had been amazing. The parties in the London streets, the celebration being well-deserved; confetti, and even balloons had flown everywhere. People cried in relief, people cheered in victory. Cars couldn't separate the concrete walls of people as they ran up and down the streets, they were everywhere. They littered shops, homes—crawling to stand on the palace's gates. Why, even a palace guard had cracked a smile for a brief second. Celebration had been everywhere, and it had been well-deserved.<p>

Thinking back on it, it made England turn a little red as he walked through Manhattan. He still wore his officer's uniform, adjusting his cap every so often and fixing his gloves every now-and-then. People everywhere…. The people here, Americans, just … kissing random people out of the blue! Yes, the English celebrators had been jubilant and affectionate, as well. This was … a bit different, but watching them put him in a mood; he wasn't sure what it was, but it did make him think back to May 8, and smile. He'd given quite the kiss to a rather excited, exuberant nation that day, though said excited, exuberant nation had flown off soon after to go finish things off in the Pacific.

England was looking for that very same nation; that blond haired, blue eyed nation. The one with the glasses and that ridiculous lock of hair. He'd probably be wearing that filthy bomber jacket, too. He should have been back, should have been in New York two days ago, actually. The only trick was trying to find him, in the entire jubilee. It certainly wasn't easy, pushing around people, and receiving tips of men's hats in his direction: A gesture of thanks for his service. (He was flustered a bit; he'd not expected anything like that from the American public directed towards him.)

He continued on a few more steps, peering around people as best he could, and wiped the confetti off of his epaulettes. Perhaps he should just have waited in a shop, or something…? When another 5 minutes passed with no sign of America (and as it was America, how could he miss?), England decided to do just that, and walked to the nearest shop. He'd walked by the pub, but it appeared to be rather crowded, and at that moment, England wasn't feeling particularly up to dealing with such a form of boisterous activity. (Maybe later.)

As England turned the corner, he stopped. Walking – ha, walking; more like jogging – up the walk and towards him was none other than the man he'd been looking for. They took notice of each other, both blooming a rather strong shade of pink upon their faces, and America stopped just a step or two away. It wasn't long before America was smiling widely, nearly jumping out of his skin in excitement. England, meanwhile, opened his mouth several times to speak, with nothing coming out.

This was the first time since their London celebration that they'd seen each other, their conversations in between sparse, quick, and mostly geared towards stratagem and politics. Neither really ventured into what happened, the memory still extremely fresh and colorful in their mind. Of course, both knew of the other's feelings, now, but some things had yet to be said. Ends of conversations over the radio had been awkward enough to prove something had definitely been sparked, and now, with those months apart from each other, and the end of the war…

Their meeting gazes helped that spark grow until it was on the verge of complete ignition. England contemplated a repeat of London, but that would be far too repetitive, and—and besides! It was America's turn.

Finally, England seemed to find his voice. "Welcome home, America."

America kept offering that silly smile of his, and laughed a little bit. "Thanks!"

…But then that led to a stilled time of even more awkwardness. What was one supposed to say? 'You're welcome,' would make it seem even worse, wouldn't it? And even supercilious, to a certain extent, and if twisted the right way. England looked away, unable to come up with much. He couldn't even think of anything to say to America? 'Good job,' 'I'm glad you're home safe and in one piece,' 'Let's talk about you and me.' None of those things wanted to leave his mouth, no matter how hard he pressured them.

This didn't matter, though. Soon enough, America had his arms wrapped around England, hugging him tightly. England had frozen for just a second, before relaxing, and wrapping his arms around America in turn. Maybe it was just him, but England wanted desperately to keep that spark's flame growing. Weren't hugs supposed to … demote the status, per se? But it was a nice hug—it was comfortable, and warm, and … oh, yes, all right: Intimate, he supposed, if intimate meant being pressed tightly against each other. It just seemed quite the contrast, between practically snogging the life out of each other in a London street, and just … hugging in Manhattan.

Not that hugs weren't nice. They were. But it would be nice if maybe America initiated something—even just a peck on the cheek would be nice!

America pulled away, standing straighter only a little bit. He removed England's cap, hitting their foreheads together, and he grabbed England's attention instantly. Those wide eyes of his were so close – oh, America must not have gotten much sleep, if he had bags under his eyes… – making England want nothing more than to just close his own, and let himself hold America, or continue to be held _by_America. If it came down to it, and America hadn't kissed him, he could always conjure up an excuse to save himself the embarrassment. Fatigue from the war (which wasn't a lie, really) would work, he supposed, but that would be silly. Such a position as theirs would be expected of two who had shared something as intimate as a kiss. Besides that, what was a hug? What was an intimate gaze?

"I was really worried about you…."

His own eyes wide, England looked down and covered his mouth as if the action might take the words back. It didn't, and it was evidenced by America's light-hearted chuckle. It—it had just come out! Like he'd gone on auto-pilot, his mouth just spouting out whatever it damn well pleased…..

"It got pretty rough sometimes, but…" America began. "I got through! Of course I did; I had to save the day, y'know?"

England nodded. He'd been through various South Pacific islands before; he knew they were rough. No one should have to go through war in them, especially with two stubborn belligerents. He could just imagine the mud, the rain, the fighting, the food…. Ohh, he shook those thoughts away quickly, and shifted his direction to face America. Just in time.

Finally England got his wish, with America finally kissing him. More than last time, there was a tenderness there. In London it was more urgent with an underlying current of softness and tenderness. This time, it was the opposite, but England couldn't lie. He really wanted to feed into the strand of urgency. Of course, he didn't – mostly – and just kissed America back, enjoying as their arms wrapped around each other.

England couldn't help but finally pull back, and watched as America immediately broke into a grin. England blushed hotly, and glanced away. He was unable to hide his own grin when America took his hand.

"You ready?" he asked.

England refocused, subconsciously gripping America's hand a little tighter. He nodded. "Yes, I am."

They walked towards Time's Square, where America whispered something into England's ear. He'd turned to mush, but soon enough found himself whispering it back.

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><p>END<p> 


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